“They liked my idea,” Emile went on, leaning back and lighting a cigarette.

“Your idea?”

“I told them I’d write a piece about the jobs women aren’t doing as well as the men who used to do them. I’d photograph the mistakes, expose the money it costs to make do with labor that isn’t suited to the job. You Americans have been asked to believe a story about how well everyone is getting on with the new way of things but perhaps it’s not true.”

“You didn’t really.” She stared at him, expecting he would laugh and tell her she was mad; as if he’d write a story like that.

But he just stared back. “I did.”

Her legs pushed her upright and the words came to her easily now that she no longer cared about kindness. “You know this is over. We’re holding on to something that happened a long time ago when I was young and didn’t know any better and when you were…” How to finish that sentence? “A better man than you are now. And I’m not referring to your fingers.”

“Nobody ever refers to my fingers,” he retorted. “But everyone thinks about them. About poor Emile who used to have the models falling at his feet.”

“That’s what you miss?” she asked sadly. “I’m sure if you’re still able to stand by the end of the night, you’ll be able to get someone to fall at your feet. I’ll stay elsewhere for the next few days while you move your things out of the apartment.”

“How will I find somewhere to live on such short notice?” His voice was petulant, like a child’s.

“I’ll get the bank to transfer you enough money to pay your rent for a month. After that, your articles,” she couldn’t quite keep the anger from her voice, “will surely support you.” Then she left before either of them could say any more hurtful things.

* * *

The only thing to do after that was to go to a party. She arrived at midnight, which was late, but not impolitely so—the party never started at Condé Nast’s Park Avenue apartment until ten at the earliest. Condé kissed Jess’s cheeks and apologized for the stance he’d had to take with the Kotex ad.

He’d been the one to discover her, not long after she’d arrived back in New York City. She’d taken a different ship home than her parents because Emile hadn’t been ready to leave on the SS Athenia—she couldn’t even remember now why he’d prevaricated. Which was, everyone said, lucky for her because the Athenia had sunk and her parents had died. But how was that lucky?

A month after she’d arrived in Manhattan, when she’d at last made herself stop crying, she walked into Parsons School of Design to enroll in photography classes. Condé Nast had been at Parsons delivering a lecture to the fashion students and he’d seen her, as poignant as any Madonna, he would say later when he told the fantastical story, her brown eyes wet with tears from a month of weeping. The rest, as they say, was Jess’s history.